Hello! Here is a new chapter!
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The day promised to be long and exhausting. François had been warned the day before.
He doubted that a night's deep and restorative sleep would be enough to give him the energy needed to face everything ahead.
Paris overflowed with wonders. The time he would spend in this city would not suffice to see even a hundredth of them.
The gardens of the Hôtel Royal des Invalides, the Champ de Mars (even if the Eiffel Tower would not rise there for another hundred and twenty years) stretching before the prestigious École Royale Militaire, Saint-Sulpice, the gardens of the Luxembourg Palace, those of the Tuileries, the new Sainte-Geneviève church which, unbeknownst to him, would one day become the Panthéon, the King's Garden and its collection of exotic plants, Notre-Dame de Paris, or the Cours de la Reine lying between the Champs-Élysées and the Seine.
The list of gardens, squares, churches, and palaces to admire seemed endless.
François stepped into a luxurious carriage, far more comfortable and spacious than the one that had brought him to the capital. That day, he wore cream-colored breeches, a jacket embroidered with silver thread, and a matching coat, perfectly suited to the season.
Looking closer, shifting the fabric under the sunlight, one could discern delicate floral patterns woven into it.
These clothes, borrowed from Martin, seemed both magnificent and slightly constraining. Quite a change from his major's uniform: elegant yet sober, sturdy, made to last for years and withstand hardship.
But it was hardly suited for life in Paris. Here, fashion changed faster than the seasons.
They said it took only a few weeks for a man to appear outdated in the eyes of society.
François tugged a little at his sleeves, ill at ease. Martin had been generous in lending him this attire. What he had brought in his luggage would have seemed far too plain in the eyes of gentlemen and refined ladies.
Yet he was a little taller and broader in the shoulders than his friend. The fabric strained in places, as if ready to give way at the slightest move.
Martin tapped twice on the carriage frame to signal the coachman. The vehicle set into motion, passing through the gates of the townhouse.
"Well then. I suggest we begin with the workshop of a friend of mine. I'm sure he could make you a suit you'd be proud of."
François looked up, startled.
"Make me a suit? Hm, that's kind of you, but… I don't think we'll have the time. I don't know how long such work takes, but surely it must require several weeks. I won't be in Paris by then."
"Don't worry about that," Martin replied calmly. "He'll take your measurements today, then handle the rest. Once ready, the suit will be delivered to my hôtel, and I'll have it sent to your parents' home in Corbie. Won't you be staying there until spring?"
François fell silent, then thought of something. He hesitated, a little ashamed.
"Well? What is it?"
"It's just that… Even though I truly appreciate your offer, I certainly couldn't afford a suit of such quality. My income is decent, but not nearly enough for such an expense."
Martin burst into laughter.
"Ahaha! Come now! You've no reason to worry over such a trifle! We're friends, and you are my guest! Let me give you this gift. Besides, haven't you already showered my family with presents?"
François widened his eyes and looked at his friend with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude.
As Martin had said, François had indeed brought his gifts that very morning: a long carved pipe accompanied by a snuffbox, a superb fur, a small bow for Jacques, and a pearl necklace for Louise and Charlotte.
"I cannot accept, Martin. A full suit, even if it is from your longtime tailor… It must cost a fortune!"
Martin's smile did not falter. He leaned forward, as though confiding a secret.
"He is not merely my tailor. He is a master, a very gifted craftsman whose clients include many highly influential nobles at Court—though I shall not name them. Not princes or the king, not yet, but I am certain that will come."
"All the more reason! Please, be reasonable! The gifts I gave to you and your family did not cost me a fortune!"
"And this suit will not ruin me either. As I told you, my investments yield more than enough."
François frowned slightly.
In his letters, Martin had told him how, in the early years, he had taken a great risk—when he was estranged from his relatives—by investing all his resources into a long voyage to the East Indies.
The ships had departed from Bordeaux, laden with goods, circled Africa, rounded the Cape of Good Hope, sold their cargo in Bengal, then sailed on to China.
Unlike the English, they had been warmly welcomed by the co-hongs. Not because they were French, but because they had come with large sums of money, fine Spanish coins.
Indeed, the Chinese trusted only in silver and did everything they could to amass it. Naturally, Europeans bought their tea, silks, porcelains, and other treasures with it.
The French ships had returned with holds full to the brim, making spectacular profits that filled other nations—and Britain above all—with envy.
In the following years, Martin had been more cautious and had diversified his ventures, investing both in the East Indies and across the Atlantic. He had thus financed several voyages and grown considerably wealthy without ever leaving France.
All that was required was that his ships reach port safely.
At times, a vessel might vanish, swallowed by a storm. Fortunately, such losses were not so common. Had they been, no one would have dared invest, much less attempt such journeys.
In 1765, his uncle, also a man of business, had made a reckless gamble that nearly ruined him. He had financed, almost singlehandedly, a convoy of eight ships.
This fleet reached without incident the powerful kingdom of Dahomey, where it purchased from King Tegbessou nearly four thousand five hundred slaves to be shipped to the plantations.
But halfway through the journey disaster struck: a fierce storm scattered the vessels. Six were swallowed by the sea, along with crew and cargo.
The two survivors limped on to Martinique in pitiful condition, and half of the human cargo had perished of disease along the way.
The catastrophe reminded every merchant of a simple truth: never risk one's entire fortune on a single voyage. Martin, in his first year, had survived only thanks to the audacity of youth and the luck of the bold.
"Very well then," François conceded at last. "Where is this workshop?"
"You shall see. The Grand Collet is not much to look at from the street—it has existed only a few years—but their workmanship is remarkable. The workshop lies across the Seine, on the Quai de la Grève, not far from the Hôtel de Ville. It was recommended to me by a most talented modiste in that quarter, who also makes my wife's gowns. Afterwards, since we shall already be on that side of the river, we might take a walk through the garden of the Tuileries. We are fortunate—the weather is splendid today."
François gave a quiet nod, letting himself be rocked by the jolts of the black carriage with its gilded ornaments.
The vehicle rolled along the Quai de la Grenouillère, which became the Quai d'Orsay near the Pont Royal. They crossed the Seine and emerged before the Tuileries Palace.
The carriage at once turned right onto the Quai des Galeries du Louvre. François gazed in silence at that illustrious building, destined one day to become the most visited museum in the world, filled with works and wonders gathered from the four corners of the earth.
For now, it was but a vast, square palace in the taste of the seventeenth century, joined to the Tuileries by the endless "galerie du bord de l'eau."
If the Louvre, as it stood in 1769, had been shaped by Louis XIV, this wing dated back to the great King Henri IV, the monarch who had ended the civil wars that once tore France apart between Catholics and Protestants.
"Impressive, is it not?" Martin said with a trace of pride.
"Yes," François replied, already reflecting that within two centuries the whole would double in size.
"What is kept in that great gallery?"
"Paintings. Many paintings—French, Flemish, Italian above all. Sadly, unlike the gardens, I cannot take you inside. Dress alone is not enough. One must be invited. If it truly interests you, I could ask my father."
François declined politely.
In his other life he had never cared for museums, perhaps because there were simply too many objects on display. In the great museums of Paris, one could spend only a few seconds before each work if one wished to see them all.
He had visited the Louvre once, with his class, and in the end remembered nothing. He could not even recall having seen the Mona Lisa, no doubt hidden behind a barrier of tourists both local and foreign.
"Ah, Martin!" François cried suddenly, nearly leaping from his seat.
"W-what is it?!"
"The Mona Lisa! Where is she today?!"
"Pardon? Is that a painting?"
"Yes! By Leonardo da Vinci! Surely you know it?!"
Martin frowned, taken aback, and searched his memory.
"Ah—yes, I believe I recall such a work. But how on earth do you know of it?"
"That's not important! Where is it? Can we buy it?!"
Martin burst out laughing.
"Certainly not, my friend. Not even my father could afford it by sacrificing his entire fortune. That portrait, La Mona Lisa del Giocondo, has belonged to the royal collections since the reign of King François I. It must be somewhere in that gallery—or perhaps in the palace itself. I had no idea you held such an interest in art. I am truly surprised."
The carriage rolled on along the Seine, and François could not help but notice the increasingly dilapidated state of the buildings. It felt as though they were entering a poorer quarter of the city.
In truth, there were worse, but the wealthy seldom set foot here.
"Are you quite certain we are headed the right way?"
"Absolutely. I have been several times. I know it is not the most dazzling district, but I assure you this workshop rivals those of the Rue Saint-Honoré. There are many craftsmen here, and some are true hidden gems. We are almost there."
Still doubtful, François tore his gaze from the grim façades and the grimy figures wandering near the carriage, and sank deeper into his seat. Thus they entered the quarter of the Grève.
At last the fine carriage stopped in an ordinary street where sunlight barely filtered through.
The coachman climbed down, joined at once by Yann Madec, his face half concealed beneath a wide-brimmed brown hat topped with a long pheasant feather. The man François had hired in Brest hurried to make sure the street was safe for his employer.
His menacing air was enough to scatter the ragged beggars who had begun to approach in hope of alms.
Meanwhile the coachman opened the right-hand door, bowing slightly as Martin alighted. François followed him.
No sooner had he stepped onto the cobbles than he was struck by the filth of the place. Grime lay everywhere, and it felt as though he had set foot in a vast open-air refuse heap—or a sewer.
The locals, from what he could see, seemed to mirror the state of the neighborhood.
Good Lord! What a stench!
A rat, nearly as big as a cat, darted out of an alley, shot between his legs, and disappeared beneath the carriage.
"Are you coming?" called Martin, reverting to the formal address now that they were in public.
He stepped into the shop, a little bell chiming above him.
François, unwilling to linger in that filthy street under the curious stares of passersby, quickly followed.
"Monsieur Poulain, what a pleasure to see you again!"
"Hmm? Why, isn't this young Monsieur de Lusernes! To what do I owe this honor?"
Martin turned to François and presented him to a small man, wrinkled like a ripe apple, whose piercing eyes betrayed the vigilance of a hawk.
"Monsieur Poulain, allow me to introduce my friend, Major François Boucher de Montrouge, newly arrived from the New World."
François studied the little man and bowed respectfully.
"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir."
The master tailor immediately stepped closer and began to inspect François from every angle, circling him like a general reviewing a soldier.
"These garments are of my hand, I recognize them—but I don't recall ever seeing you before," he said in a slightly grating voice. "You seem rather cramped in them, and this color… no, it truly does not suit you."
Surprised, François glanced at Martin, who merely smiled.
"I lent him my clothes so he wouldn't have to walk about in uniform. He's only in Paris for a few days."
"And is that an excuse to torture him so? Look at him. He seems imprisoned in that coat and jacket. What will happen if I ask him to raise his arms?"
"I try to avoid broad movements," François admitted with an embarrassed smile.
Monsieur Poulain rolled his eyes.
"Good heavens. Very well, this gentleman is clearly in need of proper attire, made to his measure. I am rather busy, to be frank—my book is full, but… Joubert?"
He clapped his plump little hands twice, and a young man, poorly favored by nature, plump and red-cheeked, appeared from behind an old, peeling painted door.
"This is Monsieur Joubert. He has worked for me for some years now. He has a sharp eye for elegance and an overflowing creativity. I leave you in his care."
François bowed politely to the young man, who seemed to be just over twenty. At first shy, Joubert transformed the instant he set to work.
His voice grew firmer, more assured, as he wrapped a measuring tape around François and took down every dimension of his body without the slightest hesitation.
He jotted everything into a small notebook, then led François and Martin to a table cluttered with tools, sketches, and fabric swatches. From a drawer, he pulled out a large sheet of paper and, with a skilled hand, began sketching a masculine silhouette.
Sharp, precise lines took shape before their eyes, soon joined by new details on the page.
Curiously, he produced no catalog.
When François pointed this out, young Joubert explained that fashion shifted so quickly that the very idea of a catalog was absurd. The same was true for the modistes.
"We do not follow fashion," he declared boldly. "We create it."
During the conversation, he admitted his ambition of opening his own shop within a few years, to sell his creations to the wealthiest clients of the kingdom. His talents had already been noticed, and he knew that when the day came to spread his own wings, he would have a choice clientele waiting.
By the time they were finished, more than two hours had passed. It was close to eleven.
The suit would take time to complete—at least three weeks and several fittings.
As soon as they left Master Poulain's shop, they climbed back into the fine carriage and returned toward the elegant quarters of the city.
Dinner—called le déjeuner—was still far off, since at that time it was customary to sit down to table around two in the afternoon. François had long since grown used to this peculiarity, though in the twenty-first century it was common to eat between noon and one.
As they neared the Louvre quarter, the streets grew wider and cleaner. The inhabitants were better dressed, and the façades more attractive.
Like in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district, where Martin lived, there were many private mansions here. The finest—though this was open to debate, since art was a matter of taste—was certainly the Hôtel de Noailles, on Rue Saint-Honoré.
His Paris residence, with its garden, was indeed charming, but it was nothing compared to the Palais-Royal, at least four times as large, and even less to the Tuileries. Here, nothing equaled their majesty.
When Martin's carriage stopped again, François was left speechless.
It was magnificent beyond words.
"This is… incredible," François exclaimed, his eyes wide as saucers.
"Isn't it? Many people come here for fresh air. Not just nobles—bourgeois and artists too. To breathe, to find inspiration, or to make new acquaintances."
François nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the marvel before him. Nothing of the sort existed in the New World.
I can well believe it. I think… I could stay here for hours.
The palace itself was worth a look. Stretching for at least three hundred meters, it was composed of several wings punctuated with tall windows. The whole structure commanded respect, reflecting both the grandeur and the power of the House of Bourbon.
Before such an edifice, one could not help but feel proud to be French.
A group of strollers passed in front of them, offering a polite greeting before continuing on. Men and women, richly dressed, followed by silent servants. Everything about them—their attire, their bearing—suggested nobility, but François knew he could be mistaken: many wealthy bourgeois were willing to ruin themselves just to look the part.
"Does His Majesty ever come here?" he finally asked.
"Oh no," Martin replied. "He resides at Versailles, with the entire Court."
"Then… what use is such an immense palace? Isn't it a waste?"
Martin seemed amused by his friend's puzzlement.
"Rest assured, it is far from abandoned. Though no longer the principal residence of the kings of France, it remains a place of ceremony and display. Our good king lodges honored guests here, artists under his protection, and at times hosts royal events. Did you know it even houses an opera? Originally, it was at the Palais-Royal, but after the fire of 1763 it was moved here."
"I see."
Martin stepped ahead of him, passing through a splendid wrought-iron gate, black as ink, crowned with golden fleurs-de-lis that glittered in the sun.
"Let us walk a little. It will give us an appetite for lunch."
And so they began strolling among the flowerbeds, maintained with meticulous care by what seemed an army of gardeners. It was more than gardening—it was art.
Every trim, every alignment appeared to follow a precise science.
They first walked along the broad gravel path running between the palace and the garden, passing before a vast parterre where arabesques of clipped shrubs and colorful flowers intertwined. At the center, a small circular basin sent up a tall jet of crystalline water, its gentle murmur soothing to the ear.
Then they turned left, entering the central alley that led to a larger basin, also adorned with a fountain.
As in every proper French garden, geometry reigned supreme. It had been decreed decades earlier that beauty lay within mathematics. All the gardens and parks of Paris followed this rule, inherited from Italy and ultimately from ancient Rome.
This stood in sharp contrast to the English gardens, which favored irregular shapes, free lines, an attempt to imitate an idealized nature—much like the Japanese or Chinese.
At the far end of this immense garden, stretching nearly seven hundred meters, stood a great octagonal basin and a double ramp leading down to the Place Louis XV (today's Place de la Concorde).
At its center there was no obelisk, as in the twenty-first century, but an imposing equestrian statue of the king, the Bien-Aimé. Erected on February 11, 1763, precisely one year after the signing of the Treaty of London, it was yet another symbol of royal power.
Here he was depicted in armor—not modern armor, but Roman, as worn by the conquering emperors of old. With one firm hand he held the reins of his steed, while in the other he brandished a command staff. Upon his brow rested the laurels of victory.
"Wait a moment," François said, slowing his pace as Martin seemed eager to continue. "I want to read what is carved on the pedestal."
Martin stopped and let François circle the statue.
Strength, Justice, Prudence, and Peace.Hm. Not very original. He might have inscribed the names of those who had won him this victory: d'Estrées, Montcalm, Richelieu, and Soubise. Ah—and let's not forget Monsieur de Roquefeuil!
"Shall we go?"
"Yes," François sighed, already feeling weary.
"In that case… let's see. Half past noon. I suggest we pay a visit to the Saint-Laurent Fair. Then you'll see the people of Paris are not so unhappy as you think. Afterwards, we can have lunch. Ah, but before we go—did you notice?"
François turned toward his friend, raising an eyebrow.
"Notice what?"
"The statue. It faces east, toward the Indies, but the king's gaze turns north—toward England. Amusing, isn't it? The British diplomats noticed, and they were not at all pleased. Which is precisely why Parisians like it so much."
He chuckled softly.
"Well then, let's be off!"